Conan the Bug Slayer

Conan gripped the worn leather steering wheel as his pickup grumbled down darkened streets, somewhere off North Broadway. Towering slabs of concrete and steel lined the avenue, lit windows peering down, sentinel eyes watching over the roads like dreary ancient gods. Ahead, the rising sun blazed orange, skimming first light over rooftops, banishing the shadows before them, but not the fog in Conan's mind. Ever did his instincts forged by highways and byways serve him true in navigating the sprawling urban maze. Unknown perils could emerge from any point, so Conan steeled himself for whatever lay ahead in the endless skirmish of his workday. The bills had to be paid, and by Crom, he was going to pay them!

North Broadway came into view through the glare, and suddenly a shape appeared - a woman walking her dog from behind tall hedges. Conan slammed the brakes, lightly wrenching the wheel to veer around her and her fiercely snarling pet. For a pulse, he glimpsed her wide eyes and the dog's pale sticky fur before passing unscathed by them both. But in the side view mirror, he caught sight of a hulking delivery truck roaring down upon him, its demon driver wearing aviator sunglasses, oblivious to all but his own wreckless course. With a growled curse, Conan slammed the brake, the sound of squealing tires protesting in his ears as the grille filled his vision. His pickup rumbled to a halt, his' heart pounding, after surviving another near miss on these mean streets. The demon truck sped away into the murky distance without slowing down. After wiping his forehead with a grizzled rag, Conan got back on the road. He was running late for work.

The usual steel-and-glass fortress loomed as Conan parked his truck, alongside of two fellow programmers, Jeremy Williams and Tod Roberts, both worn thin by incessant digital warfare. Within the tower, screens howled fresh plagues - servers buckling, permissions stripped, programs gone mad. Settling in at his dim gray cubicle, though no Project Manager coordinated the defense, Conan took the first cases emerging from the ticketing system this crimson morn. A payment site had run amok in the wee hours - after scrying through thousands of tangled lines, he found and strangled the miscreant code. More flames rose through the day, as outside shadows crept once more over the canyons of the electronic city. By the end, he was, as usual, a jittery mess, nerves shot, throat horse, eyes red and watery. He trundled out into the parking lot, and without a word, drove out into the night.

The day's battles done, Conan steered his metal camel to the neon glow on the edge of night. Within the all-hours joint called Ma's Carbuncle, the air hung thick with fumes from iron skillets and bubbling cauldrons. At one booth, a hard-eyed truck master discussed upcoming deliveries, calling them "raids" with a grim smile, while at the counter a motley assortment of deadbeat analysts nursed smoky potables, grumbling to one another about tax hikes and federal form 3190b.

And there she was—Sonya the server, slinging her greasy bounty with the skilled precision of a dancer amid the chaos. Her copper locks shone in the dull light, and eyes like emeralds flashed from a face of alabaster. Though many a sordid regular and half a dozen accountants had tried to scale her ramparts at one time or another, none had yet overcome her sardonic defense. Her virgin glare and whiplike tongue kept them all at bay.

As Conan took his regular perch, Sonya slid before him a plate piled high with mystery meat nestled on dry black bread. "The usual?" she asked, her eyebrows arched with a slight curiosity. "Aye, and another scalding draught of blackwater to wash it down," grunted Conan, notably disinterested in her undertones. At his sigh, Sonya paused. "Another long plunder through the pixelated wilds, eh, Conan?"

"Aye, and new devils spawned with every flame extinguished. But your smile makes the dark path a mite brighter, shield-maiden," he replied in a tone of calm despair. Sonya's lips twitched almost imperceptibly upward, before her royal callers demanded her swift return. Conan fell upon his simple feast with vigor, warming his belly on this cold urban eve. Outside, the traffic howled and screeched its painful cacophony as the city braced itself for the darkness to come.